


Les Démons de Minuit

by ConstanceComment



Series: Coeur de Loup [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aggressively Disco 80s Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, M/M, Movie/Brick Fusion, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Unexplained Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceComment/pseuds/ConstanceComment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One is a former convict, former mayor, and hobby conman. The other is former prison guard, former detective, and trained attack dog. They fight crime.</p><p>In which Valjean and Javert go haring across France together in an immaculately old Lancia Gamma to the tune of muffled gunshots, things that go bump in the night, creaky bedsprings, irregular phone calls to their girlfriend/dispatch, and aggressively disco 80s hits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Démons de Minuit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushingcrazies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/gifts).



> A Supernatural AU. Because obviously the fandom needed one of these the way it needs a hole in the head. The fandom also needed more of this threesome, and I couldn't sleep, so.

They’re just outside Lannepax when they get the call.

“Werewolves,” Fantine says, and her voice is like smoke in Javert’s ear as it comes through the cellphone he pushes up against his jaw to try and get closer to the sound of her, sweet and dark and curling with Fantine’s tongue to make the syllables of the call to arms.

“Werewolves,” Fantine says again when Javert fails to answer quick enough, “fifteen miles from Priay. Your favorite,” she adds. It’s a bitter enticement. Mostly sarcastic, but there’s something in there, too, shared history resonating down the phone line. It’s been years, long enough, apparently, for Cannes to be a joke and not a horror story.

Javert’s mouth twitches; the expression could almost be a smile, but it’s a grimace on him, lips tugging down under the weight of gravity and instinct.

Javert’s sideburns are unruly, his face is covered in stubble, and the beginnings of a beard more gray than black rubs up against the thin plastic casing of the phone as Javert holds it to his jaw. Javert hasn’t shaved since their last hunt started. There hadn’t been time, and they were chasing down a shapeshifter in any case. The physical differences were good, jarring, even if in the end they hadn’t mattered. Shapeshifters can mimic a lot of things, but a walk? A smile? The slight hitch in Valjean’s step when he’s tired, or when Javert startles him, making his legs drag from the phantoms of doubled chains?

The shifter had walked into the motel wearing Valjean’s face, and Javert had shot it through the heart the moment it turned around, its legs failing to fail it in Javert’s presence. The shifter’s eyes had gone wide and silver-shocked from the muzzle flash in Valjean’s face, a muffled cry of betrayal spilling from its lips before Javert shot it again, the silencer on his pistol doing nothing to stop the civilized _crack_ of the silver bullet from the gun as it shattered the shifter’s heart into so much red pulp.

Valjean had just gone out to check the local missing persons reports— he wouldn’t answer the damn phone. But then again, he never answered the phone when Javert was calling. The body cooling on the ground in a pool of its own blood was a testament to what happened when Valjean did; Javert got worried, and a wary Javert was as bad as a shotgun with the safety off, and twice as deadly.

Javert had not expected an answer from the phone— Valjean never answered the phone when it was Javert who was calling. Javert knows Valjean’s voicemail by heart, at this point.

_Hello, you’ve reached M. Leblanc, please, leave a message at the tone. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. And Javert? Stop calling me. I’m fine, I promise. Stop worrying._

But the call had connected nonetheless, and a voice that assuredly was Valjean’s but _wasn’t_ had answered; “Hello?”

The shapeshifter’s body was cooling on the ground in a pool of its own inhuman blood, Javert had sat on the bed with the gun in his lap, head in his hands as he tried very hard not to charge from the room. If the shifter was here, then Valjean was either captured and working on his own rescue, able to slip or break a rope or a chain faster than Javert could find him, or he was dead, and Javert flying from the room would not change that fact. On the bed next to him, Javert’s phone had sat, stonelike, as if to burn a hole through the shit mattress they had spent a few euros to fuck themselves to sleep on.

When Valjean walked back in the room, rubbing his scarred wrists, he had nearly tripped on the corpse.

“That’s going to need a tarp,” Valjean had managed, and something in Javert clicked back into place, snapping back like a rubber band, painful and sharp.

“Answer your damn phone next time,” Javert had growled at him as Valjean stared at him with wide, hazel eyes. Javert’s voice had not shook. His hands had been steady.

“Well, it’s a bit hard to answer one’s phone when a shapeshifter has it,” Valjean replied carefully, hands outstretched like Javert was something that could spook.

“Answer the damn phone anyway,” Javert had said.

 _Don’t get kidnapped, next time,_ Javert had not said.

Later, Valjean had helped Javert bury the body and scrub down the motel room when Javert had been unable to stop his hands from shaking, kind enough not to mention it, or else too tired to bring it up. The French government already had them both listed as dead, Javert as a suicide and Valjean several times over under several different aliases. There was no need to leave a corpse lying around with Valjean’s face. There was already a poorly-kept grave bearing his name in a cemetery outside Faverolles. It was be bound to be rather confusing for someone to have to deal with the problem of having more corpses than graves.

Fantine breaks into Javert’s memories with a false impatience. “If you don’t say something soon, I’m going to pretend like I can’t hear you breathing and call Valjean instead.” Javert can practically see her wry smile from here, missing teeth uncovered by the fond twitch in her lips.

“Like he would pick up,” Javert answers her eventually, coughing once and wincing at the feel of his own voice, rough from disuse and wrong next to the smoke-silk of Fantine’s amber smile.

“He always picks up for me,” Fantine waves him off, “he can’t get enough of me, it’s just you he refuses to answer.”

Javert snorts, rolling his eyes because she knows she will hear it even if she can’t see it. Javert does not say _we miss you_. It would be redundant, and none of them have ever been the sort of people to appreciate redundancies.

“Tell him hello for me,” Fantine says, and this time Javert does smile.

“Not on your life, woman,” he responds, grinning slightly. Fantine’s answering laughter in his ears is like bells made of cold iron.

The phone clicks once and goes to dial tone, and still Javert holds it to his ears, chasing the sound of Fantine’s laughter through the echoes down the phone line.

“So?” Valjean asks with deceptive mildness, fingers curling carefully light on the steering wheel to avoid denting the metal as Javert puts the phone back in his pocket. “How is she?”

“Werewolves,” Javert says, and his voice does not rasp from disuse, “fifteen miles from Priay.”

Valjean’s mouth twitches; it could almost be a smile. “Your favorite,” he says, and Javert says nothing in return. He is too busy trying not to cough around all the things he should not say.

Beneath their feet, the Gamma rumbles down along the back roads of France, full of unspoken words and the aggressively disco sound of a Lafontaine hit.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the [80s French disco hit of the same name.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_ZxDNZjzVk)
> 
> The title of the series is also the same title as [another 80s disco hit](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auCQrrSMUns), though this particular song originated Belgium.
> 
> The car is a pun. The choice of songs, are also puns. Hugo would probably be proud if he wasn't spinning in his grave fast enough to give Conan Doyle a run for his money.
> 
> And honestly, like you can't imagine Javert and Valjean haring across the French countryside in a classic car listening to aggressively disco retro hits from the 80s, all of it modern when they purchased it.


End file.
